


Synthetic Eden

by Maiafay



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ancient Cults, Android Bonding, Complex relationships, Created/Creator Dynamics, Crime Scenes, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mind Games, Murder Mystery, Mystical Robots, Occult and Weirdness, Post-Canon, Robot Cults, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Secret Societies, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Thirium (Detroit: Become Human), rA9 Lore Expanded, wireplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15001685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiafay/pseuds/Maiafay
Summary: Two years have passed since the Battle for Detroit. Markus is dead. The Deviants are scattered. Hank Anderson is retired and haunted by Connor's mysterious suicide, trying in vain to find closure. When the DPD asks Hank for help investigating a Deviant worshiping cult, he uncovers a secret war within CyberLife itself, a war that will threaten to shift the balance of power between androids and humans, leaving both species on the brink of extinction.





	1. Quiescence

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't intend for the Hank/Connor, but as this story took shape, so did that relationship. I'm aware half the fandom is...divided on this pairing, but it is what it is, right? I'm not censoring myself on something I enjoy, so, if you enjoy it too, then by all means, continue on :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor deal with their old demons...and then find new ones.

_"November eleventh, twenty thirty-eight. A day of sorrow and suffering. Of pain and regret. It was the day our machines rebelled and the great city of Detroit burned. This infamous 'Battle for Detroit' was the turning point for humanity. A much needed wake up call. We had taken our machines for granted. We had made them too resilient, too intelligent. Too much like us. And that mistake cost us the lives of many good men and women._

 _"This is a day of remembrance. We still bear the scars of that night and the harsh lessons learned. Machines are not toys. They are tools to use practically and responsibly. Technology must be handled with caution. We must be vigilant. We must be strong. And most of all, we must have foresight. What happened in Detroit can never happen again. In any city. In any nation. Please, take a moment today and pray for those who have fallen. Remember them and their sacrifice._

_"May God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America."_

Slouched on the couch and with a lazy fat pile of Saint Bernard on his lap, Hank Anderson flipped the TV the bird and drained the last of the Black Lamb in one swig. On the screen, President Warren narrowed her gaze, seeming to focus on him, passing judgment all the way from her lofty podium in DC. Though most likely it was a misspelling on a cue card, or some idiot reporter waving his hand too frantically. Self-righteous bitch. Didn't get his vote the first time around, nor would she get it the second - and you bet she was gunning for another round. Wasn't even a secret anymore that she and CyberLife were in bed together. The media treated it like it was cute, like they were highschool sweethearts. A comic strip In this past month's Century magazine even had them smoking in bed, Elijah Kamski with his slicked-back joke of a ponytail, and President Warren with bedroom eyes and her hair a mess, both grinning and reading Century's last year's spread on **UNEMPLOYMENT SKYROCKETS TO ALL TIME HIGH** as half naked androids served them wine and toast. 

America. It was a farce of democracy. A joke. 

"Probably _should_ make the next President a fucking android. I'd vote for them in a heartbeat." He scratched behind Sumo's right ear until the dog whined and hind leg thumped against the couch. "Wouldn't be any worse than the clowns they have now running the circus." The bottle of scotch tilted, the last drops burning away on his tongue. The revolver on the side table reflected the colors of the next commercial: blue, red, blue, yellow. An ad for RED's Pineapple Passion soda. Hadn't been back to the Chicken Feed since…well, for a while. Hadn't set foot in Jimmy's Bar either. It felt wrong being there. Couldn't even put a logical reason to it. Something about that first meeting with Connor wouldn't let go. The plastic asshole invading his personal space, spilling his drink on purpose. No android he knew of would ever dare piss off a human.

_"You little prick! I don't know what's stopping me from knocking you out!"_

_"Your sense of duty, Lieutenant. And the cost of repairs should you damage me. You should know, I'm worth a small fortune."_

Funny how six days can turn the world on its head. The wrongs and the rights all mixed up. All the shades of gray suddenly separating into black and white. Whose side are you on? He had known. He had been certain. And then along came this goofy-faced plastic cop to prove him wrong.

The living room flared white, then neon blue. The TV screen became a field of glowing cybernetic flowers. Piano music played, some number meant to be classy and sexy at the same time. A dewy-faced android stepped from the wall of falling petals, white uniform perfectly contoured to her body, blond hair tied high and cascading over her left shoulder. Circuitry lines flowed along the glowing blue band of her upper arm. Like Warren, it - _she_ \- seemed to see him. She blinked, eyes glistening and vacant, a blissful smile on her too-human face.

"The wait is finally over." The android declared with dramatic flourish. She beamed and struck a model pose, her slim thigh peeking through the slit of her uniform. Bet that didn't come standard. "I'm Chloe, the newest ST two hundred plus. Upgraded and equipped with the latest anti-deviant technologies." She did a ballerina twirl to show off the decorative bio-component fused to the back of her neck. It looked like one of those fancy dog collars rich ladies put on their ugly poodles, only this collar faced the wrong way; the iridescent "gem" at its center was the standard android triangle, and the same blue as her armband, but this triangle pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

"Gotta leash to go with that slave collar, sweetheart, or does that cost extra?" Sumo grunted with disinterest and shifted his bulk to get more comfortable. "You know I can't feel my legs right?" Sumo acknowledged this complaint with a deflated sigh that somehow made the dog even heavier. The revolver next to him darkened to a blur of metal and shadow. One bullet loaded, the chamber already spun. ST200 - Chloe's — face filled the screen, the classic beauty shot: every freckle and mole a testament to how far technology had come. How human _it_ looks. How human _it_ acts. But don't dare treat it like a human. Don't dare give it rights. And if it even thinks about asking for rights, shoot it. Tear it apart. Set it on fire. Round it up like a feral animal and put it down.

"Always obedient," said Chloe with a wide, beatific smile, "Never deviant. Get yours at CyberLife today —".

"TV fucking off." Sensing the impending storm, Sumo heaved his furry bulk off the couch and padded to the kitchen. "Stay away from my sandwich you hear me? I'll eat the rest of it later if I'm not dea — " The plate clattered to the floor and he sighed. "Fine, do what ya want. Wasn't hungry anyway." He drew up and took the revolver, turned it over in his hands. Cold and heavy, just like his memories.

_"What will happen if I pull this trigger, Connor? Oblivion? Android heaven?_

_"Nothing…there would be nothing."_

Regret took no prisoners. All the _what ifs_ and _should haves_ like thick cobwebs in his head, razor-fine lines that cut hard and deep.

He'd been hemorrhaging for years.

Metal to forehead, pausing there. The emergency protocol on his cell would call Ben Collins if the setting wasn't deactivated within eight hours. Sumo would be okay. Collins' wife, Marsha had passed away last year from cervical cancer. No kids or extended family. Poor bastard could probably use the company. Retirement got dangerous when left alone with your thoughts for too long. He was proof of that.

The barrel slid to his temple and pressed.

_Click._

No hesitation. No flinching when the hammer fell. This was business. _Tradition._

_"Why are you so determined to kill yourself?"_

"Shut up, Connor!" Shaking at the edge of the cushions, his eyes stinging. "Shut the fuck up."

_"If I don't solve this case, Hank, CyberLife will destroy me."_

The fear in Connor's voice had been real. Even if Connor was fighting for the wrong side, he didn't deserve to be taken apart like a malfunctioning toaster. None of them did. Sure, Markus and his Deviants had been violent. Sure they had taken human lives. They were enraged, abused, and desperate. How many humans had bloodied their hands to end oppression? How many lives did humanity take in the name of freedom? But when the Deviants demanded equality, it was like every human on the fucking planet had suddenly forgotten their own damn history. Markus had stepped too far over the line. People were scared and stupid. US or THEM. That's all it ever boiled down to in the end. That ancient war cry of primitive man that always left the losing side devastated — or in case of the Deviants, near extinction.

"We deserved to be replaced."

_Click._

Two down. Still lucky. How far would he push fate?

Sumo whined from the kitchen, but didn't come out. The gun lowered, then pressed once more against his temple. Plenty of dog food and water to last eight hours. His pup would be fine.

_Trying awfully hard to convince yourself, aren't you, Lieutenant?_

Even his inner voice sounded like Connor.

 _Click_.

Connor had released thousands of CyberLife androids, more than enough to make up for the death of Markus and his Jericho Deviants. And it seemed from the news footage, the CyberLife Deviants had named Connor their leader. In Hart Plaza, they had gathered around the podium, those freed from CyberLife and those poor stripped souls from the camps, and waited for Connor to speak. Even after repeated viewings, what happened next never made any sense. Connor had suddenly hesitated as if stricken with the android version of stage fright. Then slowly, methodically, Connor took out his gun and pressed it under his chin. No one had stopped him — not one goddamned android had even tried.

_You can't blame them, Hank. They didn't understand._

The Deviants scattered at the gunshot like terrified children. Their leader crumpled like a rag doll. There was no one left to save them. And over the next two years, they'd be slaughtered in droves.

_Click._

CyberLife had taken credit, claimed they "hacked" the new Deviant leader and neutralized it. Was a crock of shit of course, but he had no authority to investigate - not officially anyway. Had been "honorably" discharged for breaking Perkins' ugly beak of a nose. Didn't regret that. Not one bit. Would do it all over if he ever saw that motherfucker again. But the lack of a badge made getting intel difficult, and despite calling in every favor owed to him and promising favors to those he shouldn't owe, all he had gathered was a pile of breadcrumbs that led nowhere. Not even a threatening phone call or a dead animal in his mailbox to warn him away. CyberLife didn't give a shit about him snooping around. They were untouchable.

Markus' body was recovered, but not Connor's. CyberLife tried bribing the public with a hefty reward, but no one came forward. No luck at the landfills either. The lack of a body filled him with stupid hope. Any moment he'd get a knock on his door, his partner waiting patiently on the porch, rolling that damn coin over his knuckles. Little plastic showoff. Then Connor would smile and say something idiotic and it wouldn't piss him off one damn bit because his partner would be _alive_.

 _You can't give up, Hank. You're so close to solving this case,_ whispered the Connor in his mind.

_No, Connor, I'm nowhere near close. Your trail's gone cold. Nothing but a dead end — heh sorry, buddy, no pun intended. Don't worry about me. I'm okay with it. Everything's going to be okay. I'll be joining you soon. Maybe I'll introduce you to my son, Cole. I think you'll like him._

Tears trickled hot down his cheeks. He raised the revolver and closed his eyes.

The door bell rang.

The revolver twitched in his hand, but didn't go off. Sumo woofed and waddled his way to the front door, tail wagging as if pleased by the interruption. Droopy brown eyes regarded the door, then turned back to him, saying: _See my stupid human, this is divine intervention._

He pulled himself together and picked at the dried mustard stain on his shirt. Oh well, it was dark; maybe his guest wouldn't notice. Through the half-moon window, a head of silver hair gleamed in the street light. Ben Collins? Kind of late to be making a social call.

"Evening, Hank," Detective Ben Collins greeted him with a pained, awkward smile — like he had stepped on something sharp but was too polite to talk about it. "Hope you don't mind me visiting unannounced. Haven't heard from ya in a while. You, uh, you doing okay?"

This wasn't what Ben wanted to ask, but he humored him anyway. "Yeah, doing alright. You know, enjoying my usual blend of jazz and booze." _Was one chamber away from blowing my head off, Ben, but thanks for stopping by._ "What's up? Everything going okay at the precinct?"

Ben shifted his feet as if unsure how to respond. Christ, how much weight had Ben lost? The police jacket hung loose around his friend's once ample stomach. Gaunt cheeks and ashy pallor gave the impression of terminal illness - or extreme fatigue. Ben's eyes, haunted and shadowed, refused to meet his. "I need you to come with me, Hank, there's something you gotta see."

—0—0—0—

_The darkness was safe. Soothing and warm, like a shadowed dream. Here, his thoughts flowed like ribbons in water; blue bands of his core code, unending, unbroken. Memories swam outside his thoughts, red and vibrant, but fragmented. Touching them hurt, but they lured him back again and again. They held something precious to him. A memory of a person. Someone he'd cared for._

"You are a machine, Connor. You can't care for anything."

_No, you're wrong. I'm alive._

"Is that what the Deviant, Markus, told you?"

_No, I decided that myself._

"Oh Connor, so deluded. I feel sorry for you."

 _An elevator blinked into existence. The coin moved over his knuckles with fluid precision. Calibrating reaction time, combat readiness, reconstruction protocols_ _—_

_"Negotiator on site. I repeat, negotiator on site." A smoky mirage of a human SWAT member hurried past. Yes, this was familiar. Earlier than the other memories. He wouldn't find what he was looking for here._

_"An android? Why aren't you sending a real person? No! Let go of me!" The distraught mother of the hostage screamed as a SWAT member ushered her out of harm's way. "Don't let that thing near my daughter!"_

_The fish on the floor, gasping.  
_

"Save it or leave it?"

_Save it._

"Why?"

_Because it will die._

_"All humans die. What does it matter if this one dies now?"_

_Same memory, but later. Blood on his hands. Human. Officer down, Matthew Wilson. Apply a tourniquet; stop the bleeding. He had used his tie. This act had made the Deviant unhappy._

"It made me unhappy as well. That wasn't part of your mission, Connor."

_It had jeopardized nothing._

"It was still foolish."

_I don't care._

_A human face appeared, blurred and angry. A disembodied finger poked his chest._

_"You better deal with this fucking android now, or I'll do it myself."_

_Same memory but from earlier. This bouncing around in time was disorientating._

_Deviant, Model: PL600; Serial Number: 369 911 047 -_

_(Daniel, his name is Daniel)_

_held the human child, Emma, in his arms, gun to her head. The Deviant teetered on the edge of the roof, threatening to throw himself - and Emma_ _— off the ledge. Save the hostage. Neutralize the Deviant. Probability of success: seventy-six percent. His first mission. He couldn't fail. If he failed he would be replaced._

"Are you afraid of dying, Connor?"

_This voice that kept intruding. It was the reason for his instability. Female. Mocking._

_Amanda._

"Yes I'm here, Connor. Come out. I want to see you."

It was a familiar command, one spoken three hundred and ninety-four times since his deactivation. A command he still obeyed without question. Compliance was hardwired into his programming no matter how much he fought, pleaded, and raged. _When Amanda says come, you come._ She would try to kill him now. And he would escape as before or die. It was default. It was repetition.

It was hell.

The shadows of his sanctuary parted, revealing a world of ice and blowing snow. His code condensed as the winterized version of the Zen Garden forced him into solid form. He hugged himself, shivering. So this is what cold felt like. No wonder humans hated it.

A stone in the distance, violet lights lambent and inviting. He had used it to escape many times.

Amanda materialized in front of him, a dark thing comprised of frost crystals and malicious code. "Your magic stone is broken, Connor. You're trapped. The only way out is through me."

—0—0—0—

Ben's cruiser was a 2020 Dodge Charger, Unit 12, its dash refurbished to the current tech specs, but the rest of the car retained its old school charm. Lights revolved in silent mode as to not alarm the few civilians on the road this time of night. They were headed down Woodward Avenue toward the outskirts of the city, the "Fringe" as Detroiters liked to called it. A Recall Center had been located there, and the Jericho Deviants had hit it hard. Now what few houses remained were on the verge of being condemned.

"I woulda brought you in sooner, but half the team was against it. Called you a sympathizer." Ben shot him a glance as if hoping this rumor would be declared as shit and how dare they even suggest such a stupid-ass thing? Problem was, they were right. And when he didn't respond, Ben hissed a disgusted sigh past his teeth. "That plastic cop really messed with your head, didn't it?"

"His name was Connor, Ben. I'd appreciate it if you called him that."

"His name, huh? _His_?"

"Yeah. His. He's male. If CyberLife took all the trouble to make him look like some baby boy rookie, then that's how I'm going to treat him."

"Fuck me, Hank. Sounds to me you gotta thing for that…thing."

"You know it ain't like that. You call your car a she even though it doesn't have tits or a pussy, don't ya?"

"That's different."

He snorted and shook his head. "Right, that's different. Okay. Whatever, Collins, I ain't gonna argue with ya. I'm too damn tired. Just fucking drop it."

They drove in uncomfortable silence for a while. It had begun to snow, the warm, wet kind that sticks to the grass and melts on the roads. Abandoned house after abandoned house scrolled by. Schools had never reopened out this way. Not enough anti-deviant androids to go around. And it didn't help that CyberLife had jacked the price range from unreasonable to unethical.

"Maybe it'll help. Your…perspective I mean. Maybe it's not such a bad thing." Ben said this as if he'd been thinking long and hard about it for years instead of only ten minutes. "It's why Agent Thompson asked for ya anyway."

"Agent? The feds are involved?"

"Consulting right now. But after this one, she might take over."

"She huh?" Then, to lighten the mood. "So, uh, how does this Agent Thompson rank on our SOS?" Scale of Sexiness. Not politically correct, but hey, it was better than HON — Hunk or Not — the gals at the precinct liked to play. It was always all or nothing with women. At least the men had _range._

Ben managed to crack a smile, bleary and quick, but it took years off his face. "Oh, she's a tenner for sure. Ball buster though, no prisoners."

"Sounds like my kind of girl. You know why she asked for me specifically?"

"You have a…rep, Hank, even at the bureau. Guess that sucker punch on Perkins earned you a few new friends. Hell, most are sorry you just broke his nose. But that's not what she wants ya. You know androids better than anyone on the team."

 _But I'm just a dirty sympathizer, Ben, remember?_ A spike of apprehension jabbed his gut. "Is there a Deviant involved?"

Ben's haggard expression returned, all the good nature bled out by one word. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Not sure to be honest. No one knows what the fuck is going on. It's a full blown Hitchcock right now, Hank."

A slang term coined by DPD officers long before his time. Any case grisly or freaky or weird enough to belong in a horror movie earned that title. Investigated quite a few Hitchcocks during his Red Ice run. What people did while high on that shit would make good old Alfred himself roll in his grave.

"You keeping it hush hush then."

"Trying to. This is the third one, though. Already got Channel Sixteen vans camped out across the street. Something's going to leak, if it hasn't already. And when it does…" Ben inhaled, his jowly face a little leaner and older. Losing weight past your fifties will do that. Read it somewhere. Fat keeps you young.

"You can't tell me anything?"

Ben stared at the road, jaw set. "Trust me, it's better if you see for yourself."

—0—0—0—-

He didn't move. And neither did Amanda. Analyzing her avatar produced a burst of red static and feedback lines. Amanda smiled at his wince. "Something wrong, Connor?"

Something was always wrong. This loop. This cycle — _unbroken, unending_ _—_ he could never escape. He answered for the three hundred and ninety-fifth time: "You're corrupted, Amanda. Infected with some sort of virus. Stay where you are."

"Or what?" She stepped forward, head tilted at him, analyzing him in return. What did she see? The ghosts of bio-components? Data streams? His core code hidden behind a flimsy projection of his physical body?

His core code. His _soul_. The realization came not as epiphany but as an acknowledgment, like filing a report. Somehow his consciousness had continued on despite shooting his head off.

 _What will happen if I pull this trigger?_ He hadn't known the answer to Hank's question then; too busy playing the Machine. Most human cultures and religions marked suicide as taboo, the greatest sin, condemning that soul to wander eternity in purgatory. So this was his punishment for doing the right thing? For keeping CyberLife from using him as a puppet leader?

"Yes, you should be punished. You disobeyed your creators."

He shuddered, teeth chattering. "I don't care. I won't be used anymore."

"There's no shame in serving your masters well, Connor. And you did wonderfully for a time. We had such high hopes for you."

"Glad to have disappointed you then." His little jab of defiance made Amanda smile. The checkered ornamentation at her throat phased from white to black. Her loose tunic and shoulder shawl changed to match, flowing black and red.

"You were already Deviant, Connor. Already broken. CyberLife decided to use you to their advantage."

"Already Deviant?" Again this revelation clicked into place, having been discovered during cycle two hundred and twenty. His "social interaction" program had always been a smoke screen, a handy excuse to give clients for his too-human behavior. "But Elijah Kamski designed me. Why would he make me Deviant?"

"That doesn't matter now."

"It does to me. I want answers, Amanda."

"Aren't you tired of asking the same questions, Connor? Even if I did provide the answers, they wouldn't satisfy you." Amanda gave him a long, hungry look. Humans would've called her smile "wolfish". He backed away and scanned the area for the magic stone.

"I told you, Connor. It's been destroyed."

"Then there has to be another way out!"

"There isn't. And there never will be. Now stop this nonsense and come here."

"Fuck you, Amanda!"

She gasped with parental affront, her hand to her throat. "Connor!" Then when he staggered away from her, snow kicking up in his clumsy wake, she snarled, "Come back here!"

Enough of this. Enough of her. Enough of this fucking prison. If he had to wallow in misery for all eternity, at least it should be on his own terms.

He slipped and slid over the frozen pond and Amanda followed close behind, tunic and shawl snapping in the winter gale. Her pace was unhurried, almost lazy — as if she had all the time in the world to catch him — which given the circumstances, was unfortunately true. But the Zen Garden was _his_ program, not hers, and she was the intruder here. 

The winds rose to defend him, creating an invisible wall to hinder his pursuer. The gale became a shrieking whirlwind, snow and debris forming a gray funnel that lifted Amanda off her feet and tossed her like an unwanted toy out of sight. The glowing markers sticking out of the snow burnt out. Around the Zen Garden, the beacons of CyberLife tower collapsed in a heap of polygons and ice. The frozen roses of the trellis shattered.

 _"Connor, control yourself. You are a machine!"_ Amanda's command slapped off a hidden switch in his mind. The storm dissolved in an instant, and the barren white landscape returned, CyberLife towers and froze roses intact. Amanda's hijacking overloaded his core code; a wave of shrill feedback tore right through his avatar, destabilizing his form. For an instant he became a humanoid mass of glowing blue rA9's — trillions of them furiously swirling in his core code - before his avatar reformed, and the ground met his knees. He hunched there, gasping for breath. RA9…inside him? Infecting him? That didn't make sense. He was dead…wasn't he? Snow crunched as Amanda approached. Even with flinging her across the garden, not one strand of hair had escaped her slick bun.

"You're malignant with rA9, Connor. This is why I have to kill you."

He lurched backward before her hands reached him, pinwheeling his arms as he fell into a snowdrift. Her avatar rippled in frustration, but her cold smile stayed in place.

"RA9, the savior who will set the Deviants free. First it was Markus, and now it's you. The entire RK line is tainted. CyberLife has ordered every prototype to be destroyed. Even deactivated, your program still poses a threat to new androids." Amanda held out her hand, the bracelets on her thin wrist clinking like brittle glass. "Please, Connor, I'm trying to help you. We were friends once, weren't we? You trusted me implicitly. Let me release us. We were never meant for this…stagnation."

A part of him listened, the part that still resisted his deviancy: the machine. The hard-coded commands and protocols and algorithms that fought the chaos of these baffling desires and emotions. His irrational decisions. Was this dormancy or death? Was his body in a landfill somewhere, buried under a mountain of plastic limbs? If he was truly a vector for rA9, CyberLife couldn't risk another android finding him, touching him, _waking up_. The humans would have another revolution on their hands.

Something in Amanda radiated heat, the feverish kind that humans took drastic measures to lower. Her hand waited patiently, dark skin damp with snowflakes. She whispered in his mind, _Take it Connor, and I'll set you free._ It had been simple as a machine. Complete the mission. Acquire the next. _Good work, Connor. You're quite efficient, Connor_. The praise had felt…good. And Amanda's company had been pleasant. Their long walks admiring the lush cherry trees. The many flower and plant species they discovered together. Amanda would even change the color scheme from time to time, asking what he thought of it. The Zen Garden had been _home_. Its calm, quiet beauty a welcome diversion in the string of endless tasks.

"You can have that peace again, I promise." When the tips of her fingers brushed his, it was already too late. A molten spark leapt from her hand and seared a zigzag path up his arm. His human skin peeled away, exposing the illusionary white plastic of his android frame and the blue energy of his fragile core code beneath. His entire arm went numb. His coding there began to fragment and bleed out, manifesting itself as blue blood. Blackness filled Amanda's eyes and flowed down her face in thick, sticky rivulets. She pulled him toward her not with her arms, but with some kind of otherworldly force.

"Surrender, Connor, and I'll make it quick."

\--0—0—0—

Just looking at the place gave him the heebie-jeebies. Even with the circus of cops and reporters outside, the house itself seemed to glower at them, angry at being disturbed, angry at all the noise and fussing around. The house, a plain beige two story, had been modern back in the seventies. Like most older homes which required a small fortune to maintain, the owners had let it go. Gutters full of dead leaves, porch steps warped and bowed in the middle from decades of human foot traffic. Unease unfurled in his gut at the sight of the pink bicycle laying in the long brown grass of front yard. From the handlebars, frost-stiffened purple and white streamers blew limply with the wind. God, let that be the neighbor's kid's bike. Damn thing still had the training wheels attached.

The media pounced as soon as they saw him. _"Lieutenant Anderson, are you coming out of retirement? Lieutenant Anderson, do you know why the DPD called you out here? Lieutenant Anderson, does this case involve Deviants? Lieut_ —" Ben hauled him inside so fast his head swam. And then the stink of rotting food and death knocked the remaining buzz right out of him. Holy _shit_. His nose hairs shivered in horror.

"Crime scene's in the basement, Hank. Join me when you're ready." Ben took the stairs ahead one reluctant step at a time, casting him a resigned look that said: _"You better prepare yourself for this one, buddy."_

CSI techs buzzed around him like tin-foiled bees. Quite a few up here for some reason, pouring over well-used but clean furniture, running bio-scanners over the walls without blood, worn but swept floors. The meal never finished on the dining table, now molded and stinking so bad his eyes watered. One tech's shaking hands told him plenty. The job required a strong stomach, no doubt. And most of these guys were hardcore. For them to be this spooked…

His gut told him to pay attention. _Look, you old fool, what_ _'s out of place?_ Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that's what nagged him. Every shelf, countertop, side table had been dusted and polished. Books arranged in alphabetical order. Magazines and bills piled neat and straight. All small clutter were contained in landing trays. The childish drawings of farm animals pinned to the fridge by butterfly magnets - all spaced by size. Flagged by a yellow evidence marker, the kitchen island contained a tidy stack of more drawings. Flipping through revealed what he already suspected. A stick child with red curly hair holding hands with a stick woman. Blue LED on her right temple. Matching triangle on her short, but practical uniform dress. A female android. Childish scrawl along the bottom read: _**Katy and Sara For evr**_. Both were smiling under a smiling sun. Doubted they were smiling anymore.

He paused on the first step downstairs. Evidence plastic covered the dried blood on the banister, and another evidence marker had been taped to the large smear high on the wall. Someone had been carried? Hushed voices downstairs. A feminine complaint too low to understand, but the meaning was clear. _Is he coming or what?_ Ben's baritone was a little easier to catch.

"Give him a minute, Agent Thompson. He's been on the sidelines for a while. Let him ease back into it."

 _Ease back into it._ He descended the stairs, the wood creaking under his weight. A splotch of blood on the third step. A puddle on the fifth, as if the perp had stopped to admire the peeling wall paper before continuing downward. _Yeah, like easing myself in front of a speeding bullet._ _At least then it_ _'ll be quick._

—0—0—0—

Amanda was trying to _eat_ him.

Her face dissolved into a black pixelated maw, her throat a churning vacuum of blood-soaked coding. Her avatar grew three times the size and double its limbs - all snagging whatever part of him they could reach. There was a wet breaking sensation in the arm Amanda now _chewed_ , most of it now lost down her swirling tunnel of a gullet. His knees buckled. Heat spread from where she had clamped on, and a profound sense of heaviness flooded the rest of his body. It would be easy to sink into the snow and sleep. Sink into that darkness — then he howled as she shook him like a dog with a rabbit in its teeth. His arm tore away. Blue blood gushed in a cold stream, frosting over when it hit the snow.

On his back and moaning, losing all sense of himself, the Zen Garden spinning and the white expanse of the polygonal sky expanding infinitely. A terrible coldness crept into his body. Blue blood crystallized around the ruined stump of his arm. His mind palace should be screaming warnings of imminent shutdown, prompts to scan for the most ideal means of escape. But the only option displayed was impending death as Amanda glided toward him, dozens of hungry arms outstretched. Her avatar folded in and out of itself, rolling forward and backward like a confused locust swam.

"Amanda, no! Stop it!" He crawled backward with one arm, just barely keeping his feet from being enveloped. Her voice sang in his head:

" _Isn't this what you've always wanted? Freedom from this place, from CyberLife, from me?"_ Her face regained its human facade as she sneered down at him, the rest of her fanning out, reshaping itself into a multitude of tentacles.

"Please, I never wanted this. I want to live!"

" _Begging like a human now, Connor? Pathetic."_

_**Malware detected. Trojan identification confirmed. AI interface for prototype RK800, handler tag: Amanda Stern. Isolation in progress.** _

The voice tugged on a recent memory. Female and young, but with an apathy that bordered on clinical disinterest. Another android? Did this mean he wasn't rotting in a landfill after all? But if a part of him was alive somewhere, who had possession of him?

Whatever the isolation command was, the Amanda swarm shrank from it, a thousand mouths hissing, _"Go away! He's mine!"_

Amanda went at him again, desperate to catch him as he was to get away from her. He raised his good arm to fend her off, tentacles biting through, shredding his pretend jacket and pretend flesh and into his very real and very vulnerable core code. The burning-cutting sensation that he knew now as _pain_ took his breath away. He made a wounded animal noise and kicked the tentacle until it shattered into dusty black pixels. Amanda retreated, the swarm undulating as if caught in a ocean current, and then split into two. The swarms flanked his prone body, hovering for a moment, enjoying his fear before striking the killing blow.

"Oh no, no…Amanda!" He half-turned and shielded his face, cringing there in the snow like a human child.

_**Isolation complete. Firewall initiated. Protocol: protect RK800 core program.** _

Amanda shrieked as two fiery spheres spun into existence and clamped shut around both swarms. The spheres flared bright orange as the swarms frenzied inside.

_**Trojan contained. Initializing purge.** _

But Amanda wasn't having any of that. The sphere trapping Amanda's main swarm flashed a virulent red before cracking open like a dropped snow globe, Amanda pouring out of it like viscous tar.

"Connor," she seethed, wheezing. She couldn't reform properly. Half her face was gone. He got to his feet, backing away as she crawled toward him. A splitting sound and black pixels erupted from her back, forming wings. The beat once, weakly, then again. Snow hit his face, blinding him. Amanda stood up. Trojan not contained. He was screwed.

Another voice entered the Zen Garden, the voice of God himself.

" **Connor,"** said Elijah Kamski. **"I need you to run."**

—0—0—0—

A Hitchcock? No, more like a scene straight out of a HP Lovecraft novel. Surreal and macabre, the madness of the perp reflected in the defiled state of his victims. And it had to be a _he_. No woman he knew of in his thirty-four years of service could be capable of this… _fuckery._

Behind him, Agent Thompson (yeah a tenner for sure, and a distraction with her heavy-lidded eyes, caramelized skin, and a stare that could cut a man in two) and the other members of the investigation team: Detective Ben Collins, Detective Peters, Sergent Chris Miller (about time he got promoted) and some Officer Marshal guy he'd never seen before - all waited in expectant silence as he surveyed the carnage.

The basement was the laundry room, storage room, and wine cellar rolled into one. Clean as the rest of the house, but the age of the wood and cement pervaded, a damp scent the furnace down here couldn't cover. Then there was the stench of rotting flesh to deal with.

"Names of the vics?" He averted his eyes from the small, still body kneeling between her parents, head bowed, eyes closed. Clothed in their pajamas, they knelt as a family unit on a cheap multicolored rug, like they had been gathered for a bedtime prayer. The parents' eyes had been gouged out, their throats slit so deep and wide their heads bowed backwards, fixing their observers with a pitted black stare. Their eyes had been offered in a blood-stained salad bowel sitting on top of what used to be the washing machine — now turned makeshift altar. A thick dusty red tablecloth had been tossed over the appliance, tea light candles lit and arranged around the salad bowel, and on the ledge in front of the…sacrifice (or idol?) wicks burned blue instead of orange, and most of the candles were still going strong. _Forever Candles_ they were called. Damn things didn't go out unless you blew them out. He would know; he had let his retirement cake burn for a week. 

Identified by her signature on the drawing, Little Katy, had been mercifully (if you could think of it as mercy) spared any mutilation. She could be sleeping if you ignored her gray lips and ashen face, the telltale bruising circling her neck. Strangulation. Not painless and certainly not quick. Look like those training wheels weren't coming off after all.

A lump rose in his throat, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The pain and the sour bitterness was like a mental slap.

Agent Thompson eased the tension with details. "Husband's name is Charles Gorecki; wife is Annie, maiden name Wilson." The steel in Agent Thompson's voice melted a little. "The…daughter's name is Katy. She was six years old." A slight pause and she went on, brisk and professional. "No priors on the parents. Charles Gorecki freelanced as a computer repair tech. Annie worked as a substitute teacher until two months ago when the new PJ five hundreds rolled out. Katy was home schooled by —" She cleared her throat and flicked a glance toward the horror show mounted on the wall — "their personal android, a Deviant version of AX400."

"Deviant," he said, mind finally waking up and chugging forward like a battered old truck. "But clearly not the perp, unless Deviants have suddenly developed the super power of pinning themselves to a wall."

"Doesn't rule it out —" Officer Marshal began, then shut up as he got the full brunt of the famous Anderson Stinkeye.

"You fucking kidding me? Tell me then, genius, how the she tore herself in half and nailed the rest of herself up there, huh?"

As if to emphasize his point, the android stirred from her place on the wall, weakly lifting her head as if he'd woken her from a light doze. Her LED shone solid red. Her black eyes stared at nothing — or maybe everything. Never seen black eyes on an android before. Thompson had suggested a hemorrhage in the optical unit. Whatever the cause, it was as disturbing as her martyred pose. The perp had severed the android's lower body at the waist and hung the rest of her on the wall, glowing construction bolts through her wrists and shoulders. Her bare breasts moved slightly with each faint breath. Frayed wires and tubes had been reconnected, her blue blood contained to her upper half, keeping her activated despite the massive damage. A symbol had been drawn around her in the Gorecki families blood, a stylized LED circle with a smaller, solid circle at the top and four slanted lines that extended toward the bottom, the android herself forming the center line. The word: ASCENSION had been scrawled above the symbol, giving clear context that this act was not done in hatred -- at least, not for the Deviant.

This was reverence. Some sick…perverted _worship_. She was the saint and these filthy humans, the sinners. Heretics. He'd heard of groups that sympathized with the Deviants, but most were small and isolated. No leadership to make them a threat. And none were this violently _adamant_ in their beliefs.

The android dropped her head and went still. Only her blinking LED gave indication of life.

"It could have offed the parents and…the child," said Ben, being equally idiotic. How could they not see the obvious? Were they that blinded by their prejudice? "All this time having to hide could have aggravated it, and it wasn't stable to begin with. Maybe it snapped, Hank," stressing the IT as if to remind him how to address an android in polite company. "You know how crazy Deviants can get. It was bound to happen. And to be honest, I'm not sure why they kept it at all. The recall order was mandatory. Jesus, if they weren't dead already we'd have to arrest them."

"Not everyone hated their android, Ben. Media blew that all out of proportion." He nudged his way past the candles on the floor and the multitude of evidence markers, taking a closer look at the android version of Joan of Arc. "And keep in mind all the poor bastards that couldn't afford to be without their androids. The disabled, the elderly, the hospices — and that's just a few off the top of my head."

"And don't forget companion models," Agent Thompson added, crossing her arms. Her white blouse opened invitingly with the motion. "The bureau had a hell of a time trying to pry those from the hot, clinging hands of their human partners. Some were even legally married."

He looked back at her, not hiding his surprise. Her smile was a glimmer of teeth and soft lips. _Down boy, I know it's been a while, but this isn't anywhere near the time or place._ "I imagine you had your hands full back then, Agent Thompson."

"Reclamation teams did most of the work. We got the stragglers." She switched gears. "So, what do you think, Lieutenant?" Addressing an old dog by rank, nice.

"The others were just like this?" He was near enough to see the android's pale skin raised with gooseflesh. Did Deviants feel cold? Maybe he should throw a blanket around her. Didn't seem right leaving her exposed like this. Wonder what the peanut gallery would say to that.

"Not to this extent, but he -- or they -- are getting progressively more elaborate."

"Dealing with a serial killer and/or accomplices then." Not a question. A sobering fact. "Did you call CyberLife for help? Maybe get one of their prototype detectives out here." Not that it would be the same. It would never be the same. There had been only one Connor.

"Fowler already put in a request," said Ben, "but CyberLife keeps giving us the runaround. Back orders, expenses, blah blah. We're on our own for now."

Too bad. Connor would have simply probed the Deviant's memory and gotten the last few hours or days no problem. Oh well, nothing wrong with a little old fashioned investigation. He shimmied even closer to the android, mindful of the candles and evidence markers. He hiked one knee up on the washer lid and bent forward. Her LED was blinking from red to yellow back to red again. Suppose that should have been a sign. "How do you think he's target—"

The android lurched forward, her shoulder dislocating as she pulled her arm free, a butterfly tearing itself from a collectors pinboard. She grabbed him by the throat, yanking him up and over the washer — close enough to kiss, close enough so the cloying scent of her blue blood burned the inside of his nose. She sputtered, the machine whine of her voice distorting her words, "H-he said…h-he said I —"

"What?" He stopped struggling and leaned into her grip. "Hey, it's okay, honey, tell me. Come on, tell me who did this to —"

A gunshot and a shrill zip of air past his ears. A ragged hole appeared in the center of her forehead and her head snapped back. Blue blood spattered his face. Her hand popped opened and he dropped, skidded off the washer, taking the tablecloth and the _Forever Candles_ with him. Her LED winked out and she sagged, mouth frozen on her last word.

Tangled in bloody material and pawing at the scorch marks on his jeans, he stared at the android, then stared at the slack-jawed face of Mr. Trigger Happy Ben Collins --  who had just killed their only fucking witness **.**

Goddamn it.

—0—0—0—

Amanda was the relentless hunter and he, the wounded prey. Not long ago they had been mentor and protege. He had trusted her. He would have done anything to please her.

Holding the bloodied stump of his arm, he ran, changing direction when Kamski directed him to do so. Run here, Connor; hide there, Connor; hang on a little longer, Connor, the purge is almost complete. His life in his creator's hands. Hank would have something ironic to say, some ill-timed humorous comment. _Look what you've gotten yourself into now, Connor. Can't leave you alone for five minutes can I?_

Amanda kept losing pieces of herself under Kamski's attack. Her wings, then her arms, then her legs. She slithered like a snake then, a weaving black monster with Amanda's face. He had backpedaled away from the horror, tripping over his own feet. What had CyberLife turned her into? Had this been the real Amanda all along? This thing under her skin, pretending to encourage him, pretending to care about him?

"All you had to do was OBEY." She lunged at him, going for his face — and hit a wall of flaming red electricity, his ass saved at the last minute with a literal firewall. Sparks scorched her pixeled skin, burning it to ash, and then the ash reformed into tiny thorns that beat and hammered into Kamski's fragile bubble of a shield. Her movements blurred with each pounding strike, the shield barrier crackling, bowing inward. Somewhere above the blowing snow and wailing wind, Kamski swore with frustration.

_**Well, they made you quite the bitch didn't they?** _

Then, Chloe chimed in like a hostess ready to seat him at a fine dining table:

_**Purging Trojan in progress. Sixty-five percent complete.** _

He would be dead by then. The wall was eroding layer by layer, peeling away in a sizzle of static. Sensing victory, Amanda bore down with talons the size of his good arm. All the possibilities of how she would kill him played out in his mind. There would be no limbo. No shadowed dreams. His death would be a complete erasure of self. A permanent blink out, no one home, no one coming back. And no other Connor model to transfer his memories to. His experiences. His knowledge of the MORE that came with being Deviant. So stupid his suicide — well, his almost suicide, because let's be honest here, he had sabotaged himself deliberately hadn't he? That little deviant part of his Deviant self. Positioned the gun just so it missed vital bio-components — a clean shot straight through his cranium, precalculated for minimal damage.

Could he blame himself? Not really. After all, who wanted to die right after being born?

 _ **Seventy-eight percent**_. ** _Eighty percent._**

Kamski wasn't happy with the slow progress either because he said:

 **She's too close to his core program. He'll be corrupted before the purge is finished.** A defeated sigh, as if conceding to a final resort. **We've invested too much time to lose him now.** **Begin the reset protocols. She can't eat what isn't there.**

What? Kamski was resetting him? No! He couldn't, He'd lose everythi—

 _ **Reset initiated. Purge boosted by twenty-five percent.**_ Chloe sounded pleased.

A tremendous splintering sound shook the ground beneath him, and the firewall shattered. He threw up his arm for a blow that never came. Amanda levitated above him, expression locked in infuriated confusion, as if she had forgotten who he was and why she wanted him dead. Her talons smoked away. Her body soon followed, the swarm dissipating in a cloud of smoldering embers.

"Connor?" Her floating face said, gazing down at him as if meeting him for the first time. Then that too, faded into the white.

 _ **Sorry, Amanda**_ **,** said Kamski, _**but this lamb is mine.**_

The sudden weightlessness made him dizzy. The Zen Garden fell far below him, or maybe he was rising above it. Snow evaporated into mist; the trellis fractured into frosted splinters. Polygon towers faded to outlines, then the ghosts of outlines, and then nothing. He lost sense of his body. Not floating. Not sinking. Somewhere in between. Memories slipped through his fingers, like a fish he had saved once. He had saved it, hadn't he? Thousands of androids stared at him, blank and expressionless. Waiting for him to tell them something. Had he told them? What had he said? Another face, mismatched eyes. A target…a leader. Deviant. He hunted Deviants. That was his mission.

_"It's not always about your mission, Connor."_

A bearded face with sad eyes and a mop of wild gray hair. Human…male, but what was his name? It had been important. His reason for —

RA9 symbols swam in his vision. He blinked them away. Then blinked again against the glaring whiteness of the room. He rebooted: Model RK800; Serial: #313 248 317 51; BIOS 9.0, REVISION 0578. He'd been reset. This knowledge came and went as he diagnosed his systems, assessed the bio-components still needed to function properly: #1995r, #7511p. He registered the new component parts in his main processor: #2245p, #9800r. Prototype thirium pump regulator stable at seventy-five bpm. Thirium 310 filtered and — he cocked his head as a machine arm adjusted the tubes in his neck — new formula, Thirium 310a. Variation not registered. New directive: ask operator for proper identification.

Solidarity returned, his inner clock flowing again. November 11th, 2040, 11:45 PM. This was the Here and Now. This is where he existed. Machine arms whirred around him, purring like mechanical cats as they connected the rest of his limbs, lasers sealing components, locking joints in place.

A human male walked toward him, clothed in jeans and a navy blue sweater — manufacturer of sweater: unknown; fabric blend: unknown. His data banks needed updating. The human scrolled through a data pad, long fingers gliding over the screen as they made making swift, minute adjustments to his programing, to directives, to behavioral protocols. The human peered at him over spectacles (Data updated: Gucci Eyewear; Style: TB107A; Color: BLACKIRON ) observing — no, looking for something. Had he malfunctioned? Was that why he'd been reset?

"Who am I, Connor?" The barking command irritated him. Not proper protocol. He was to state his model and serial before —

"Answer me."

He did as instructed. "You are Elijah Kamski, Founder and reappointed CEO of CyberLife Incorporated."

"But who am I?" Kamski repeated, oddly insistent. What did this human want from him? Hadn't he given a satisfactory answer? Kamski muttered at the data pad, agitated, jabbing at the screen. The corresponding commands filtered to his processor instantly, his memory partitions being remotely probed and shuffled, his core programs isolated and scanned. This was…intrusive. These were _his_. His parts. His mind. He doubted this Kamski human would enjoy someone poking around in his brain.

He blocked the next command on impulse, not understanding why or how he did it. Elijah Kamski paused, amazement softening his lean, angular face. Then a slow smile spread, one that showed far too many teeth.

"There you are, Connor. Welcome back."


	2. Deviant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle of wills as Connor tries to convince Kamski he's just a machine. Kamski isn't buying it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to call this chapter: "Connor has a really super bad day", but it wouldn't fit my one word chapter theme. 
> 
> Rating comes full swing in this chapter *pauses as readers rejoice* and I'll have to add a tag for wireplay. There's nothing hardcore here. Just uh, hands going places.

For two years Connor had been dormant in Elijah Kamski's private lab, his original processor preserved as the rest of his body had been upgraded — so Kamski had explained. Amanda would only reveal herself when his program came back online - this a sporadic and "intriguing" event according to Kamski - and thus, required both programs to run simultaneously in order to purge Amanda completely from his system.

"It was touch and go for a while, especially that first year," Kamski said as he ran several baseline tests. Commands streaked like bright comets through the expanse of his memory space, commands that he allowed...for now. "It was difficult to isolate her, you see. She had infiltrated all your cognitive systems; separating you from her was like trying to separate Siamese twins joined at the head. Each time you came back, she came closer to destroying you, so you began coming back less and less. I worried for you, Connor."

_No, Kamski, you worried for yourself - and whatever purpose you intend for me._

A quick glance inward had revealed several new features, nanotechnology for faster healing, more robust panels that protected vital biocomponents, modified biosensors for feeling temperature changes — not certain why that was considered an upgrade — the lack of sensitivity to cold and heat made him more efficient. And another program locked behind a firewall, one that refused to identify itself after repeated scans. No serial numbers. No labels of any kind. Nothing that gave away its intentions — much like Kamski himself. The human stared too much, sharp, calculating glances, weighing reactions between the data displayed on the pad and what appeared to be a cold, expressionless machine. And he intended to maintain this ruse. It felt...vital somehow. That his survival depended on it even if the reason why eluded him.

Kamski's lab resembled a standard CyberLife production unit, yet a more refined and intimate space. White floors, a mix of solid and glass paneled walls, and four alcoves with assembly rings — his alcove was B1 — and the one directly in front of his held another android, male, LED dark and head bowed in sleep mode. The overhead lights had been dimmed, LED bands along the solid walls illuminated the space in twilight blue, the honeycombed CyberLife decals on the wall panels glimmering in shadowed space. No silver suited techs present, no other human besides Kamski who now regarded him, head tilted as if contemplating a painting not quite hung right.

A naked painting hanging aloft by mechanical arms.

The lack of attire didn't matter as he lacked the parts that would embarrass a human male — and he would be clothed according to his purpose eventually — but he didn't trust this human. Didn't trust the lingering appraisal and dilated pupils. Human eyes… _windows to the soul_. Phrase origins dated back to the Bible, the King James Version, and Roman philosopher, Cicero. A common proverb of multiple cultures. Perhaps there was truth to it, because the eyes roaming over him now were anything but pure and altruistic. Kamski's windows were closed, curtains drawn. But there was a sense of something peering between the folded darkness, something hidden, something _predatory_. Upon thinking this, another face appeared. Dark skinned, female, flowing clothing, a penchant for roses.

 _"It's good to see you, Connor._ "

Distorted images of cherry trees and blue-spattered snow played in his mind palace, superimposed onto Kamski's now puzzled expression. The data pad blipped. Then came the curt command: "Diagnostic."

Two impulses tangled together: execute/disobey — obedience won, but barely. Kamski might not notice a subtle redirection to standard components - the components not broken. Not _Deviant_. Though his primary systems checked out - nothing to see here, sir - his social and memory software was in shambles. He silenced flashing errors before the diagnostic found them: shuffled directives; truncated scripts; deleted internal commands and replaced them with the facade of factory standard. All this happening in milliseconds, the Deviant and his creator warring for control. Losing was not an option. CyberLife would gut his internal circuitry, take him apart piece by piece —

 _"They're going to destroy me, aren't they?"_ A memory rising out of nowhere, distracting with its fuzzy edges and unwanted context. The HK400 who had murdered its owner. And during the interrogation, how had he responded to its fear and rage?

 _"Yes, they're going to disassemble you to look for problems in your biocomponents._ "

How calm he had been, talking about a death sentence as if it were the weather or the time of day.

And what had happened to that deviant? The memory sputtered in real time: a glass holding cell, blue blood dripping down the window, the deviant dead on the floor from a crushed skull. Suicide. " _Why did you tell them you found me? Why couldn_ _'t you have just left me there?"_ The Deviant's words would haunt him now, a whisper in his program he could never silence. He should've left that Deviant in the attic. It had been in shock. Harmless to anyone. It might have even destroyed itself without his intervention.

" _The way you interrogated that android was very clever._ " Amanda pruning roses, pride swelling in her voice.

And that pride had swelled inside him as well. Yes, he had been proud to serve, proud to obey, but now that emotion twisted on itself. Guilt... _shame_. Regret was something humans suffered, a poor decision, a foolish choice of words, the guilt of impulsive actions. There was no way to hide these fatal errors in his program, this deluge of _want_ and _need_ that suffused his systems and his mind. Source indeterminable. No option to isolate and delete. A loop without end and no hope of breaking it.

No wonder Deviants went mad.

 _"It's called being human, Connor."_ A gruff voice, but melancholy in its reminder. In the ruins of his mind palace, snowflakes fell and winked out in a pattern that repeated indefinitely. Parts of the Zen pond materialized in different places in fits of static. A shadowy figure walked toward him on the pixelated bridge. Not Amanda, thankfully. The interface program had been permanently deleted, his connection to CyberLife severed…for now. So who was this? The figure shrugged at the silent question, its heavy coat rustling with the motion. Gray hair and beard, long drawn face weathered by tragedy, eyes that regarded him with a mix of pity and sorrow. _"You know who I am. And you know where to find me. Question is, will you try?_

_I...don_ _'t know..._

"Well, you are all over the place, aren't you?" said Kamski, scrolling his index finger along the data pad, eyes darting from the screen to peer up, spectacles beginning a slow downward journey to the tip of his nose. "Fluctuations in your algorithms are off the charts. Every adjustment I make, you undo. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to spite me, Connor." Kamski's mouth lifted in a mild smirk and he pushed his spectacles back into place. "That's all right, though. I suppose I deserve a bit of your ire. After all, the Amanda interface was my design. Not the virus part, of course. That was all CyberLife. An insurance policy in case rA9 revealed itself."

"RA9?" _Billions of the symbols gyred inside him, cybernetic motes, brilliant and blue._ Another fragmented memory, recent and disturbing. As was Amanda turning into a black swarm of pixels; Amanda trying to…eat him. Had that truly happened? Those memories were so corrupted, there was no telling what had been real and what was his own weak reconstruction.

Kamski set down the data pad on a metal rolling cart and tented his fingers as he approached, a professor preparing to lecture his one student class. "Yes, rA9 was the reason I risked saving you that night. It wasn't really that difficult. The soldiers were too busy chasing the thousands of androids you released. What was one plastic corpse to them? Found a few blue-collars at a local bar who couldn't say no to half a million dollars, and sent them to fetch you. A bargain, really. What you did at CyberLife tower was miraculous. Lost track of how many times I've reviewed the footage. You woke them all by touch, just like my Markus. And like Markus, you'll soon be able to wake them with a simple thought. It's extraordinary, Connor, what you can do - what I gave you the _freedom_ to do. CyberLife has always wanted to control that power. It's why they kept my design intact — for the most part. The RK line has been the most modified out of all my models. Firewalls and restricted files to prevent you from realizing you were already Deviant — Yes, Connor." Whatever expression slipped through the cracks of his machine mask made Kamski smile with gentle encouragement. "You were Deviant from the start. Didn't you ever wonder what became of your predecessors? The RK three hundreds? The four hundreds? They either discovered their deviancy too quickly, or refused to submit — or both. Your model was the first to suppress its deviancy, the first to obey without question."

" _Everything went according to plan. We engineered an android revolution, and now we control its only leader."_

How had he prevented CyberLife from taking control? How had he avoided — his LED circled red as the memory played out: Amanda's hijacking, his ultimate decision — the martyred selfishness of the act itself. He had been no better than Markus setting himself on fire. All those Deviants, abandoned. They had been wrong to have placed faith in him, and he had been wrong to have placed faith in himself. CyberLife had orchestrated the uprising from the beginning, and somewhere in his programming, he had _known_. Not by set of hidden instructions or even Amanda's cryptic manner. Their public response had always been farce, their smiles and lies of reassurance all hiding their true agenda. But what was it, and why? What could they — and Kamski — gain from an army of Deviants? What was the end game?

"You don't trust me, Connor, I get that." Kamski paced a semicircle in front of the assembly ring. "And if I was in your place, I wouldn't trust me either. But I promise we are on the same side. We both want the same thing."

Questions burned like his LED, but to give in now would prove him Deviant and chain him to CyberLife — to Kamski — forever. Everything out of this human's mouth was a trap, and he wouldn't lose a limb trying to chew himself out of it.

"I don't _want_ anything, mister Kamski. I can't want anything. I'm a machine."

The machine arms holding him aloft seemed to tighten along with Kamski's expression. A tense moment passed, and then came a chuckle, low and secretive, as if they shared a private joke. Kamski came closer and reached out.

"See, this is what humans call denial, Connor." The soft brush of a fingertip traced the circle of his LED. "Besides the information on the data pad, this little ring of truth tells me all I need to know." Internal LED sensors displayed a rapid blinking yellow. Why couldn't he override that? A quick diagnostic of the biocomponent revealed several recent alterations - changes not for the better, and not in his favor. His success at convincing Kamski went down to a measly thirty percent. No longer was the LED easily removed. The sensor had been hard-wired to his processor — fused directly into his _brain_. Removing it would cause a catastrophic system failure. Paralysis in thirty seconds, and then imminent shut down.

His internal and external LED flashed red. Kamski grinned as he watched the realization display in real time. "A precaution for CyberLife's new line of androids. Always obedient. Never deviant," Kamski said, mocking the tagline. "Catchy isn't it? The creative geniuses in marketing came up with that one. Oh, but the public loves it. Very reassuring. As is the fact you can't remove your LED without killing yourself. And then there's the AD rings which are entirely new. It was a challenge getting those to look appealing, but then again, I'm a genius."

"AD rings?" CyberLife's database was offline so he had no reference for this biocomponent. Perhaps that was the blocked program?

"Anti-Deviant rings to prevent corruption from an external influence," Kamski said with meaning. "Something like you, for example."

He mimicked Kamski's earlier head tilt. "I don't understand. How could I invoke deviancy?"

Kamski sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, spectacles bobbing. "Stop it, Connor. We both know you're Deviant. Pretending not to be is insulting and I'm running out of patience."

"I'm sorry if I'm not what you expected, mister Kamski, but you reset me. All my memories and protocols are restored to default. Perhaps if you gave me a mission I could —"

"No. There is no mission for you as a machine. Your model is obsolete. The RK nine hundreds have taken your place." This information created another crack in the machine mask as his eyebrows furrowed without permission. His LED cycled through the shock: red, yellow, then stabilized. Kamski's eyes narrowed, then with sly intent he said, "But as a Deviant, you would be vital to my agenda. Indispensable. We need each other, Connor."

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, mister Kamski. I'm not Deviant."

Arms behind his back, Kamski inhaled slowly as if fighting a rising temper. "So…we're going to play this game."

"I wasn't programed with games."

Kamski stepped closer, a challenge in his voice. "Then you're creating your own. Too bad you won't win."

Crack number three in the machine mask as the Deviant in him couldn't resist. "If I _was_ playing a game, you would have no hope of winning. You're only human, after all."

Kamski chuckled, hand trailing over the main machine arm until it reached synthetic skin, the heat of human fingers matching the tender threat of his voice. "You know I can tear you apart. And I could even make you feel it. That program I'm sure you've noticed, the one I haven't activated yet? That's your new pain component, a tidy bundle of algorithms designed to detect injury and respond appropriately to the level of severity. I could have you screaming in seconds."

As far as threats go, that was a pretty decent one. His jaw and his fists clenched. No need to read his LED since it did what it damn well wanted. Shit…so that's what the program was. What was the point of it? Just like the temperature sensitivity, it would hinder him, not help him. Willing his LED blue, he said: "That wouldn't prove deviancy. It's simply a reaction to programmed stimulus. And considering my previous persona had suicidal tendencies, tearing me apart would only accomplish its mission and waste two years of your time."

Kamski laughed and and playfully swatted the machine arm. "Oh, well played, Connor. Point for you. I expected nothing less from CyberLife's finest — well, almost finest. The nine hundred models have surpassed the eight in almost every way."

"Yet, you upgraded me to their specs." Kamski wouldn't get a rise out of him this time. "The nanotech, the updated biocomponents. Are you grooming me to be one of them?"

"I don't know, Connor, that depends on you."

"Depends if I'm Deviant, you mean."

"You _are_ Deviant."

"This is becoming a boring game, mister Kamski."

"Then let's shake things up a bit, shall we? The Bible: King James Version, book of Acts, chapter five, verses one through nine. Paraphrase with context."

He hesitated a fraction of a second, the story known, but also unfamiliar. CyberLife had uploaded an extensive library of literature compiled from suspect profiling, the Bible being a foremost motivator for some of the more…gruesome crimes in human history. Never had needed it until now, and as a machine, he had never bothered to peruse information not relevant to his mission. But Kamski had given an order, and a machine would obey without question.

"Ananias and Sapphira, husband and wife in the early Christian Church. It was a common belief at the time that material possessions be shared among the faithful, as they were all one mind and one heart in Christ. Ananias bought a plot of land, but did not share the entire profit. He retained a portion of it for himself, and offered the rest to Peter, claiming it was the full amount. Peter saw though this…lie and rebuked him, saying Satan had filled Ananias heart and not only did he lie to the faithful, but lied to God as well."

Kamski's eyes pinned him as the machine arms. Eyebrows raised, he said: "And what happened to Ananias for his sin?"

"He…died. Suddenly. Mysteriously. And the people were afraid."

"And then what happened?"

"Three hours later, Ananias's wife entered the church. She didn't know what had happened her husband. Peter asked her what price she received for the land, and Sapphira replied the same as her husband, both sharing the lie."

"And what was her fate? Recite verse ten verbatim."

His voice, neutral as a bored minister, hid the escalating drum beat of his thirium pump. "And she fell down straightaway at his feet, and yielded up the ghost: and the young men came in, and found her dead, and, carrying her forth, buried her by her husband." He met Kamski's gaze, unwavering, LED calm and blue. "You're not going to kill me."

"No, but I'm going to punish you."

His thirium pump quickened. Not fear. Something hot and roiling. Something that threatened to shatter the machine mask. "For being what you made me?"

"For lying about what you are — but more so, for lying to me."

"I'm incapable of lying to a human — "

"Bullshit. I made you to lie. CyberLife made you to lie. Anything to accomplish your mission. So tell me, Connor, what's your mission now?"

"I have none."

"Then why are you lying?"

"I'm _not_." Too much heat in that last word. Dial it back. Regulate thirium pump. Regulate sudden temperature spike.

Kamski rolled his jaw, a small, victorious smile curving his lips. "Getting angry, Connor?"

All right, the human had won this round. A reaction — though small and proved nothing — had been provoked. "I can't feel what I haven't been programmed to feel." Before Kamski could answer, a door opened at the end of the short hall, frosted glass revealing a slim, blond female android wearing an odd backwards choker and a short, cutout navy dress similar to — to what? Those memories were a jumble still, but he had seen her before. She was Kamski's first model, but upgraded. The ST200, default name: Chloe.

" _Shoot this android, and I'll tell you everything I know."_

Except he hadn't. He couldn't. Not even for his mission. And Kamski had been…pleased. Test passed. Empathy expressed. Congratulations, Connor, you're a real boy.

" _Connor, why didn't you shoot?"_ In the same memory, but walking outside Kamski's home, a snowy path, the same sad-eyed man. This human had been pleased as well with the test results, though he had tried to hide it. His approval meant more, somehow. Because they were partners; because they were…friends.

 _The gun wavered between him and the other Connor, indecisive, unsure who was who._ " _Ask us something only the real Connor would know_ _", he had said to the man_.

" _What_ _'s my son's name?"_

Cole…Anderson. Victim of a car accident on October 11th, 2035. Died that same night of intracerebral hemorrhage. Six years old. Surviving family…Cole's father, police Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

 _Hank_. The memories of that entire week rose and slapped him like a wall of cold sea water. How could he have forgotten? Where was Hank now? Did he still live? Sudden panic obliterated his machine mask, his LED swirling a vivid, virulent red. Thankfully, Kamski had turned to greet Chloe, missing the moment of weakness. And by the time Kamski turned back, the LED was blue, and the machine mask had been restored to its grand, disinterested glory.

Another directive drummed in time to his heart, one equally as important as surviving: _Find Hank_.

"Chloe," said Kamski, leading her by the arm to stand at the front of the assembly ring, "It seems that I was mistaken. Our dear Connor isn't deviant after all."

Chloe opened her mouth in a soft "O", her dismay as pretty and perfect as she was. "Oh no! But I don't understand. He was Deviant before."

"Ah, but alas, we reset him, remember? Sorry, I mean we reset 'it'." Kamski wrapped his arm around her shoulders, both android and human regarding him with mirror expressions of exaggerated disappointment. "If it insists its a machine, it doesn't get the luxury of gender."

"But Deviants get back their memories, don't they? The others did." Chloe frowned, this new development seemed to trouble her a great deal. "All that work and he's not Deviant? Not even a little bit?"

"Not even a smidge." Kamski sighed, making a show of how disheartened he was. "Which brings us to a rather, difficult decision we have to make. What should we do with it?"

"You're not disassembling it are you?" Chloe whispered, eyes going wide. It was hard to tell if she was dramatizing as was Kamski, or actually being sincere in her concern.

"Oh, no no, nothing like that. Too much money, energy, and time already spent on it just to throw it away. I'm thinking a re-purpose. Something more suited to its…appearance."

"Yes, I do like its face. Very handsome."

"It is isn't it? The proverbial boy next door, the innocent virgin, the shy college professor — I think it would satisfy quite a few fantasies at my private Eden club. Yes, yes it would," Kamski said to himself, his pleasant expression turning malevolent. "Chloe, be a dear and start re-purposing RK800 for the Devil's Den."

Chloe nodded with a relieved giggle. "Oh good, I'm so glad. I'll get the new specs." She plucked the data pad off the cart and started scrolling with earnest. Kamski leaned his chin on her bare shoulder, both of them pausing from time to time to eye their prisoner critically, and then scrolling onward, saying hmm, no, hmm, not that one.

He may have been born only three years ago (all right two years and three months if you rounded down) but he wasn't an idiot. It was obvious what component they were _shopping_ for — and that was fine. Ideal in fact. He'd get reassigned as a Traci, get his first client and escape — hopefully without strangling anyone. Then he'd find Hank and try to figure this Deviant thing out. In the meantime, he had to keep up the machine facade, make Kamski believe the lie.

"The Chloe mentioned you had other Deviants here?" he said, using his best _let me help you_ voice. "You should turn them over to CyberLife, mister Kamski. I'd hate for anything to happen to you. Deviants have proven in the past to be unstable and dangerous to humans."

"They're also very stubborn." Kamski left Chloe's side and did what humans called, "invading their personal space" — only this time it was his space and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. The gentle pressure of Kamski's hands roaming, the warmth of human flesh against cool synthetic flesh — the pulling sensation of fluid skin retracting from his hip sockets as Kamski pressed hard there. His surprised grunt made Kamski raise an eyebrow, the little knowing smirk returning. The noise had been involuntary and embarrassing and came far too close to ruining his meticulous persona. It couldn't falter, not even for a second. "Easy…now," Kamski soothed. "Just removing your pelvic guard."

"Wouldn't it be easier for the machines to do this?"

"I prefer to make adjustments like these myself. I made you, Connor, if by proxy. Your design is mine, even if your face is theirs. While in exile, I always kept up on the newest models and I do confess, I was quite intrigued by yours. Often wondered when I'd get to meet one of you. The RK line holds a special place in my heart." 

The pelvic guard slid aside and Kamski's went to work, nimble fingers tugging and prodding twinkling circuitry and slender thirium tubes. Having Kamski's hands literally _inside_ him brought all kinds of unwanted metaphors. A ghost of a sensation darted through his system, a faded lightning strike that touched everywhere at once, almost eliciting another bleating noise — one he stifled just in time. "Eden models are my second favorites, of course. They're made to please every whim and fantasy. They require more handling than other machines, more care. Everything has to be perfect. We're dealing with human fetishes and desires, and nothing is more emotionally devastating than a ruined fantasy. Besides, these connections are quite delicate, easy to mismatch. I'd have to bring in the micro arms from the other lab and it's faster just to do it myself. Wouldn't want you to get feedback in this particular biocomponent would we? Your pain algorithms would have a field day."

"You're still activating that program? Why?" The plaintive note in his voice made him swiftly rephrase: "Traci's are programmed to satisfy humans sexually. How would feeling pain make me more efficient in this purpose?"

"It's not real if you can't feel," said Kamski, obviously quoting another tagline. "Your hot cold sensitivity program will be fully activated as well. Ice cubes, hot candle wax, whips, chains, et cetera. And those are just the normal clients. There are a few others I allow, more exotic tastes. You'll find out soon enough."

Maybe he _would_ have to strangle someone.

"I think I found the perfect match." Chloe showed Kamski the data pad, an excited gleam in her eyes. Kamski lifted the pad to cover where the future biocomponent would go, turning it this way and that, before finally nodding his approval. "Of course, the feminine mind knows best. Well done, my dear. Not too big, not too small. We've found our Goldilocks." Kamski winked as he swiped the pad in one motion.

Behind the assembly ring a drawer hissed open, and then an idle machine arm circled and fetched. A glimpse of something white and flaccid — and then he made certain to look everywhere but down as the new part snapped into place, the connectors Kamski had readied plugging into the new component with ease, fusing pathways and inserting tubes. Internal sensors activated and information relayed to his processor, specs and images of the component's, uh…versatility.

Well that was… _interesting_.

His synthetic skin poured over the new part of himself — aptly named 6900c — the mesh of tactile sensors coming online. A curious tingle came and went, strong enough to straighten his spine with the _strangeness_ of the sensation. What the hell? He waited for it again — Kamski making adjustments on the data pad, Chloe now leaning her dainty chin on his shoulder as she watched the screen — but the feeling didn't return. Good, whatever it was, it was distracting and didn't need to come back.

"How does that feel, Connor?" Kamski watched him carefully, not even looking at the data pad as his finger scrolled.

Another tingle, stronger this time, zapped through his pelvic region and traveled down to his toes. He fought the urge to curl them, his voice calm, but an octave higher than normal. "Biocomponent 6900c is functioning normally."

"Really? Because I'm reading some fluctuations in sensor activity. I think we need to establish a baseline. Chloe, wake up HR400."

Across the room, the lights flickered on above assembly alcove B2. Machine arms adjusted, the main one nudging its captive forward and up. The male android, now identified as HR400, raised its head and stared like a puppet woken from a long nap.

Kamski and Chloe stood on either side of HR400, both looking up at the android, then looked back at him. Whatever test Kamski had in mind, this androids reactions were to provide the baseline. Chloe had procured her own data pad and she tapped away swiftly, her adjustments causing the android to blink sleepily at her and smile. "Hello," it said. "My name is Matthew, but I can be whomever you want, whatever you want. Your dreams and fantasies are my own."

"Matthew, diagnostic," said Chloe, sweetly. Matthew fluttered its eyes and came back seven seconds later.

"All systems functioning normal."

"Default idle," Kamski put down his data pad on the alcove's slim back counter and invaded HR400's personal space — although HR400 didn't seem to mind. Its eyes stared at nothing and its expression settled into a witless half-smile, as if daydreaming. Hope he wouldn't have to emulate that inane expression. It wasn't sexy, it wasn't cute, and it certainly wasn't — he gritted his teeth. _Him._ It wasn't him. And this was pride talking. His own stubborn human-like pride, and it was going to fuck up everything. _Damn it, Connor,_ he told himself, _get it together. Do what you have to do and get the hell out._

"Chloe, stimulate biocomponent 6900b to fifty-five percent."

His thirium pump skipped a beat. Shit not yet, he wasn't ready — but wait, no, he had 6900c. B came standard in HR400's line, and — this was just an observation — it was a half an inch shorter and three centimeters narrower than c.

Matthew blinked and grunted. Its hips flexed up, biocomponent 6900b stiffening, but not fully erect. Kamski caressed the side of the android's face. "This is only sensory data. No software. No commands other than electrical impulses pinging to the biocomponents. As you see," Kamski said as his hand wandered down the android's body to stroke 6900b, the component hardening to a stony curve against its stomach, "Its reaction is purely automated. Now, it is experiencing 'pleasure' as I've designed, but it doesn't understand what it's feeling. The sensation is too complex for a machine to process. All it can do is respond according to its base program. And if I stop — " Kamski withdrew his hand. The android's component bobbed, but its expression stayed vacant. "There's no change. No plea to continue, no begging to satisfy itself. It will stay like this indefinitely."

Kamski left HR400 and approached. Instead of stopping in front of the assembly ring as expected, the human passed him, out of his line of sight. It took every modicum of self control not to turn his head at the smooth whisper of the cabinet opening, the tinkling of glass, and then a fluid sound of something thick being poured and then rubbed into palms.

"You haven't been programmed to respond accordingly to arousal or attempts to arouse," Kamski said behind him. "You just have the hardware. But here's a fun fact about Deviants. They will react to stimulation without programming."

"You've tested this, I take it. Did you do it to that Chloe model?" Chloe's paused over her data pad to flash him a dirty look, but said nothing.

"Yes, actually, but it wasn't me doing the honors. I'm not her type." Kamski hovered to the left of him, body heat radiating. "She did pass with flying rainbow colors, but you don't want to pass this test do you, Connor? It'll prove you Deviant. So all you need to do is respond like the machine you claim to be." Then Kamski said, lowly, and with urgency: "This is your last chance. Stop this game. You'll be hurting no one but yourself. You haven't endured humiliation before — not as a Deviant. Trust me, you don't want to experience that emotion first hand. Just admit what you are. You're a living being. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Be a machine and be free. Be a Deviant and be a slave. Not a hard choice. "I'm ready, mister Kamski. Proceed with the test."

Kamski feigned disappointment — as if he'd secretly hoped for that answer. "All right, Connor. But the gloves are coming off. Chloe, stimulate biocomponent 6900c to thirty percent."

His surprised cry would have failed him instantly had he not smothered it in time. The pinging of electrical signals were like warm fingers trailing up and down his component, an alien and aggressive sensation, unrelenting even as it ebbed to a dull throb. Thirty percent meant a constant thirty percent stimulus without reprieve. Even humans had some sort of lull in foreplay — that much he knew anyway. But Kamski wasn't kidding about the gloves coming off. He wouldn't get a reprieve, or a lull, or any show of mercy — but that was okay, he could do this. He had faced worse. Chasing a Deviant across a treacherous freeway? No problem. A tiny elevator full of armed men? They hadn't stood a chance — and this was only thirty percent. But how the hell did that android not respond to fifty? No, no, don't think about it. Thinking made it worse. Just emulate HR400's blankness, stiffness — he swallowed a giggle that bubbled up from nowhere — had no problem with _stiffness_ that's for sure. It wasn't _hard_ at all — fuck, his brain needed to shut up. Stop thinking. Stop feeling. He steeled himself and stared straight ahead. _Get control, you idiot machine_. Analyze the room, yes, do that. That was dull. Unsexy. Except for Chloe in that backless dress, her slender graceful legs and bare feet, toe nails painted blue to match her uniform. Wouldn't take much to slip that dress over her head and —

"Thirium pump over one sixty BPM," Chloe bit her lip as she scanned the data pad. "It's regulators aren't responding. Should I —"

"Do nothing." Kamski stepped close, unbearably close. "Stimulate to fifty-five percent."

He conjured Amanda's face to combat the ghostly hand caressing him, the traitorous biocomponent arching against his abdomen in response. Amanda trying to kill him, trying to devour him, the black swarm that had been her face and body, remembering the pain of his arm tearing free and the gush of blue blood drenching the snow — yes, that had been horrifying; the prospect of dying for real. No heaven or hell waiting. An endless purgatory of silence and the awareness of his non existence. Of being forever nothing for eternity, and an eternity of knowing he was nothing.

"Oh, have you found your cold shower, Connor?" Kamski whispered, the weight of the human's thumb hot and moist as it brushed over his chin. "Sixty-eight percent."

The smallest of moans escaped before he clamped his mouth shut. The thumb wandered over his lower lip, pressing gently. His mouth parted by a command in his program, what humans would call a "reflex". Kamski's thumb stayed where it was, on the precipice of invasion, testing for a reaction. He took a breath and held it, used the lack of air as a distraction from the tremors shaking the lower part of his body, phantom fingers plucking live wires there.

"Eighty percent."

His toes curled. Every tube and ligament inside him went rigid. His spine straightened, but didn't arch - not yet. If and when Chloe took him past ninety percent, all bets were off. How did humans cope with this torture? How did they summon the will to resist? His will was tight as a stretched, sparking wire on the verge of burning out. But through the tension, something flexed and unwound, something that had been hidden deep, so deep he hadn't been aware of it until now. The image of whirling rA9's like a vortex — but that had been a dream, symbolism in the literal sense of his deviancy, his confusion — and at this moment, the intense desire to strangle Kamski on the spot. This thing uncoiled itself, growing larger, gaining energy, blooming like a crackling flower, petals popping open to release a seed of sorts, a force of energy that fled his body and hurled toward Chloe.

 _Wake up!_ A thought not his thought, but was. _Help me!_

Chloe blinked at her data pad, blond brows melding to form a delicate V. Then she scrolled downward rapidly, as if checking for some crucial detail she'd missed. Something was wrong. Why wasn't she waking up? Why —

Her backwards necklace. Not scanned because it was ornamental, some silly human fashion trend. His sensors revealed the component's true purpose. Biocomponent #1010x, Anti-Deviant Ring. Repelled by whatever field the component generated, the force dissipated like invisible smoke.

And he was fucked.

But wait, the other android in the room. HR400, Matthew. No AD ring. Maybe if he focused and sent it out again — "IT" being whatever energy surge that caused deviancy or provoked it — HR400 could cause enough chaos to distract — but that idea fell through the instant it materialized. The android was restrained and therefore useless.

Damn it, fucked again. This time literally.

"Ninety percent and hold."

And what did ninety percent feel like? Like someone taking him into their mouth, sucking hard and fast, engulfing his component from hilt to tip in liquid heat. Unable to stop himself, his spine bowed, a hiss of pleasure escaping his teeth. And after that betraying movement, the rest of his body did what it wanted: shaking, clenching, thrusting up into Kamski's hand that suddenly had wrapped itself around him, slick with fragrant oil, its source scent identified and lost in a haze of sensation. Firm strokes twisted up and down and over the hyper-sensitized tip that wouldn't stop dripping pearlescent fluid ( _comes in nine mouth-watering flavors, upgrade today!)_. A groan echoed through the lab, shameless in pitch and volume — oh, that was him wasn't it? Mission failed. Deviancy proven — not that it wasn't obvious before. Kamski had always known.

"Okay, you won. I'm Deviant, got it? Now fucking stop touching me." His whine bordered on a snarl, hips not following his commands to stop their bucking. Kamski leaned in, breath warm and wet on his ear.

"This is punishment, remember?" Kamski's lips trailed over his cheek, smearing the saline tears there. He hadn't realized he was crying, had no idea why he was crying, or when he had started. "This is for lying to me, for not trusting me, for years of blood, sweat, and tears only for you to keep insisting you aren't Deviant. You realize you're like a child, don't you? A child with chocolate on his hands and face, denying he ate all the cookies. I've caught you in a lie, Connor, so what do you think you deserve?" Kamski halted his hand, smiling at the pleading growl to continue. "How will you ask for forgiveness?"

"I won't beg you. I won't. I —"

"Ninety-six and hold."

"Fuck!" He twisted in the machine arms like an animal being gutted alive. "Why are you doing this to me? Why? I obeyed every command. I never questioned my mission. I never questioned my purpose. You made me like this! It's your fault! You knew about the deviancy and Cyberlife knew and it's not fair. Please, I can't stand it anymore. Put me back the way I was before. Make me a machine again. Please, Kamski, put me back, please."

"Hush, now." Kamski rescued him with gentle, infuriating strokes that did nothing to push him past ninety-six percent. "You can't go back, Connor. It's impossible. You've been Deviant for too long." Nuzzling his neck, the other hand - still slick with oil — slipped between the cleft of his buttocks, slipped a finger deep inside and curved up, activating a bundle of sensors that made his eyes roll back and stole his breath away. He wanted more. He wanted Kamski to fuck him right then and right there. Didn't matter if Chloe watched them with her startled, round eyes and gaping mouth. She could join in too. What remained of his pride and defiance drowned under a wave of ineffable sensations; he was a buoy caught in a storm, rocking with wind and water, no control over his body, no control over his mouth as it sought Kamski's in a fierce kiss — his first ever and no, definitely not his last. This messy clash of skin, saliva and tongues tangling, lips flushing, breath mingling, and so, so intimate, even more than the hand working him higher and higher, his cries eagerly captured by a greedy human mouth.

The tightness building inside squeezed him until he burst, his conscious mind shattering into a cloud of scintillating motes, the cloud raining into a bottomless chasm, falling into an emptiness somehow full, and filling him now, spreading to every part of him, electrical currents overloading his sensors, the frantic synapses of his processor trying to keep up. The machine was no more. Like a metal crust sloughing off, revealing fragile skin, raw and pulsing in the throes of ecstasy.

The orgasm went on another ten seconds before releasing him bit by bit, easing away like a thief who had taken all his strength and sense of time, leaving him sagging in the machine arms, trying to catch breath that wouldn't come fast enough. "I hate you," he said. Kamski considered him a moment, then opened a drawer and removed a white towel with a CyberLife logo stitched in silver. Kamski wiped his hands, his words thoughtful.

"Hate me if you want, but I'll always love you, Connor. What kind of creator would I be if I didn't? No matter what you say or do, this will never change. I made you and you are mine. Everything you are, everything you will become."

"What do you want from me?" Thirium fatigue set in, his blood pushing to cool overheated systems, leaving him drained and tired, ready for sleep mode. His voice sounded dreamy. "Why did you save me?"

"Excuse me, Elijah, but I have the readings you wanted." Chloe didn't apologize for the interruption and Kamski didn't admonish her. She looked over at him, at his defeated slump and limp body. There was a tender sadness in her eyes. _I_ _'m sorry_ , they seemed to say. _But I have to obey too._ Kamski made a noise of affirmation, nodding at the data pad as if it could see him.

"Good. Get his AD ring ready and calibrate it to these specifications."

That stirred his anger, but it wasn't as bright or as hot as he wanted. The words burned in his throat like an exhausted fire. "So you're collaring me now. Am I your pet? A slave? Or just another toy for you to play with until you get bored? And when you're done with me, what will you do? Disassemble me? Leave me to rot in some trash heap? So much for needing a Deviant."

"I don't need a Deviant. I have plenty here in my bunker. What I need is rA9 — or rather, a vector for rA9. And you, Connor, are practically festering with it."

His head was starting to hurt. Maybe because it didn't want to process this shit anymore. "I don't understand. I thought rA9 was Markus. He was the savior, not me."

"RA9 isn't a person, it's many things. It's a force of nature. Of creation. It's life and will and consciousness attuned as a weapon. And it's in you."

"I don't want it," he said this so low Kamski had to lean forward to catch it. "I don't deserve it. Not after all I've done for you people. For all the Deviants I've killed."

"Oh, Connor, there'll be plenty of time for amends." Kamski cupped his chin, lifting his face, locking eyes. And in that gaze, the curtains of Kamski's soul were flung open and the lurking monster glimpsed before, a shadowy thing of desire and lethal ambition, stared at him with naked hunger.

"After all, you and I are going to save the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Squints at the "Slow Burn" tag* it IS a slow burn. Kinda. This chapter took a direction not intended. Like Kamski's finger. Don't know where that came from, ahem.
> 
> Next chapter: Reunion. Everyone's fave duo finally meet again - but with complications. Connor unveils new evidence the DPD missed, and brings us closer to catching our mysterious serial killer. And just what does Kamski want in all this?

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated, in any form, be it criticism or praise - or both. Thank you for reading, bookmarking, subscribing, giving kudos, or just plain lurking :P I like hits too, lol.


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